He hangs up before I can say anything else, but I don’t care as I’m already halfway inside Costa, relief turning to alarm almost immediately as I see how crowded it is. I have to stop myself pulling my soaking hood back over my head. Back and forth go instructions over hissing machines and clouds of steam, a black coffee and syrupy lump of something resembling cake in a paper bag appear in exchange for my last coins, and finally I reach a small table in the corner near the toilets; finally, I reach an oasis in the storm. The cake is in my stomach sloshing around in burning, 79bitter coffee, faster than I can drape my coat properly over the back of the chair.

I’m suddenly giddy with warmth, from the inside out, stretching out my legs, trousers hanging lighter around my calves as they start to dry, steam spurting and hissing in the background like the coffee machine is trying to speak, but no one’s listening. As usual Julie drifts into my mind, like she knows what’s coming, like she doesn’t even have to read my mind to show up whenever I might be about to need my fix. And of course now it’s Beata quivering in my head. Is she lying in the dark, staring at the ceiling, reliving everything she told us? Does she feel relieved or scared, or neither? Does she feel blank, empty, vacant? Like there’s nothing inside her anymore?

The burn stabs again as I stand, pushing my way into the bathroom, slamming a cubicle door shut. It takes less than ten seconds for everything to come back out.

I spit as I flush, leaning against the toilet door with my phone in my clean hand. Do you want coffee, I type as I slump, heartbeat regulating with every gurgle of the cistern refilling in front of me. I’m only round the corner.

80

Carly ~ Warchester ~ 1997

I jump as the bedroom door creaks opens, face still inside the jumper I’m pulling on.

‘Knock, can’t you?’

Ma’s leaning in the doorway as I poke my head out. Anyone watching might think I’m about to smile at her; she’s actually standing up straight, wearing decent-looking clothes. She’s even got an apron on, of all things, even if it’s only to pretend she’s not halfway through a bottle. But her getting better at pretending has just made everything more complicated instead. More questions to duck, more stupid games to play, as if the food and clothes that seem to appear just when we need them are because of her, not me. And all because staying sober and awake for more than an hour at a time is enough for social services to look the other way.